


O M'anam

by FoxNonny



Series: gra - dilseacht - cairdeas [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mahanon Lavellan being too precious for this world, everyone being idiots, shameless self-indulgent backstory and romance shenanigans, the hissing wastes are surprisingly romantic who knew, venatori dicks being venatori dicks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-22 19:35:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7451431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxNonny/pseuds/FoxNonny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mahanon wants nothing more than for the men he's in love with to realize that he's in love with them, and hopes that a long journey to the Hissing Wastes might help sort things out between them. </p><p>Getting thrown off a cliff was not part of his plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicating this particular work to (going by Tumblr usernames) GrimSister for sending me all the OT3 fuel in the world and being just lovely in general, Her-Majestys-Watchdog for always being lovely and encouraging and for drawing extremely cute Fens (I have him walking around my computer screen a lot these days, keeping me company), Gothic-Princess-Witch for all the reasons, and for having a super sweet blog and just being an amazingly kind human being like seriously, and TheRealMnemo for being my Tumblr bae and official corrupter, making me ship things I never thought I'd ship and want to write things I never thought I'd want to write (WE'LL GET THAT TWILIGHT AU GOING SOON HUN I'M SO EXCITED).
> 
> Also want to dedicate this in a major way to CalicoJane413 (of AO3 username) for saying nice things about Mahanon on my latest Wolf Family fic and making me want to write more Mahanon-centred stuff to begin with. Of course if I'm being a doof warrior and CalicoJane413 is also one of the aforementioned people under a different Tumblr username, consider this double thanks. I'm very tired.
> 
> I also want to thank all my friends and fans on AO3 and Tumblr for being so patient and kind and lovely as I get my shit together during this crazy job I'm doing right now. I'll probably have a longer, sappier speech on my next chapter of Heart Says Go, which more people read, but I'm just really feeling it right now. If I didn't mention you by name here I'm sorry, just know that I love you and you're all the reasons why I do this.
> 
> Fic-related note now, given that Mahanon is an Irish name, a lot of his backstory has names with Irish pronunciation and spelling (sorry everyone it's a beautiful, stupid language that's a lot of fun to speak and no fun at all to read). There will be a pronunciation guide at the bottom. 
> 
> The title, "O M'anam" (oh MAHnim), means "from my heart."

The thing to be proud of, Mahanon ponders moments later as he plummets down the side of the cliff in complete free-fall, is that he got the shield up in time. 

It was his biggest weakness for so very long. The split-second reflex required to call up a magic barrier before being hit by spell or sword never came naturally to him. It drove his Keeper to madness, until she'd taken to throwing pinecones and wind spells at his head only to watch the pinecones bounce off his skull and the wind spells knock him off his feet. When he was a boy, she would take him by the point of his ear and scold him for lack of attention, her most common complaint regarding his talents, or lack thereof.

Years and many hard battles away from those lessons in the forest, his reflexes have improved out of necessity. Fireballs, after all, stoke the survival instinct in a way that airborne pinecones do not.

It wasn't a fireball today - it was some kind of blood magic shot off the end of a Venatori staff near a patch of dwarven ruins on top of a mountain in the Hissing Wastes. Mahanon is not particularly fond of the Hissing Wastes. It's much hotter than he likes during the day, much colder than he can stand at night, and there are stray camps of red Templars and Venatori throughout the desert. It is, as Sera put it while flatly refusing to accompany them on this particular excursion, "the absolute fucking worst pile of steaming shite a person can find themselves in."

Still, they have business here, and Mahanon thought that a nice few months on the road with the Iron Bull and Dorian would be just the thing to work out whatever was going on between them. With nothing but sand to stare at, after all, mind-numbing boredom necessitates conversation.

But no, nothing at all has been worked out so far, and then they were on top of a mountain looking at ruins while Varric groused about being dragged along on this mission as their "token dwarf" when the Venatori showed up and started hurling magic all over the place.

Mahanon was more focused on not being set aflame by an errant spell than he was focused on his footing.

And he was really quite pleased with himself a few seconds ago, when he caught sight of a mage levelling a staff at his head and he managed to conjure a shield for himself just in time to avoid - well, he's not entirely sure. Likely the spell would have boiled his insides, or something similarly gruesome. But it didn't.

What it did do, however, was slam into his barrier with the force of an angry horse and knock him off the ledge two feet behind him.

So he falls, now, and between the sudden adrenaline spike of tumbling to his likely demise paired with an odd weariness of familiarity given that this is not the first time he has tumbled to his likely demise, he comforts himself with the knowledge that the shield he conjured is still in place around him, and there's a chance he might survive this. There's even a chance that landing might not hurt that much. 

Then he hits the rocks, and it hurts an absolute fuckton before everything goes black.

-

Waking up is not pleasant, and takes a few tries before he really gets the hang of it.

His head is spinning far too much for him to piece together any two thoughts coherently, but he becomes keenly aware of the blood dripping down over his face and his laboured, pained breathing as a broken rib shifts against his aching lungs. He can't feel his fingers on one hand - his right, not his marked left, for better or for worse - but he can move his toes inside the boots he's still not entirely used to wearing, so he knows his spine is likely still intact.

It is also insufferably, stupidly, stiflingly hot. He has no idea how long he's been lying here, but it's long enough that he can feel the skin of his cheeks pull on new burns as he grimaces, lacking the breath even to vocalize his pain in any real way. 

He looks around without moving his head, a quick glance to take in his surroundings, and closes his eyes. He's fallen near enough to the base of the mountain that for his companions to find him, they would have to descend down the path they'd spent the morning climbing and come around to the other side, scaling a very large pile of sand to do so. Doable, if they saw him fall, but it would take a while. It could take half a day. 

_At the very least,_  Mahanon thinks, as darkness thankfully starts to take him under once more, _it's very unlikely that anyone else will find me here._

-

He feels a touch of magic worm through his chest and skull. Healing magic. Just enough to pull the bone back together and fix the bleeding in his head that likely accounts for his dizziness and dubious consciousness.

He's not quite awake yet, but he starts to become more aware as the rim of a glass bottle touches his lips, a cool liquid pouring into his mouth. He starts to life, swallowing that first mouthful eagerly. 

Too late, he feels the horrible numbness of magebane spread from his throat throughout his mind and body.

His eyes fly open to see a woman in Venatori robes hunched over him, healing the worst of his injuries, as a man pours the contents of a small black flask into his mouth.

Mahanon chokes on the next mouthful, feeling the magebane sap at what little remains of his mana reserves, as well as some kind of sedative beginning to addle his thoughts. The man grunts irritably and puts his hand over Mahanon's mouth before he can spit out the rest of the potion, covering his nose as well so he cannot breathe.

It's a short struggle. Mahanon is too exhausted, too confused to fight, and in moments he chokes his way through swallowing whatever draught this man has forced on him. 

The last thought in his mind before he loses track of things again, is that he really, truly despises the Hissing Wastes.

-

Mahanon was gifted to Clan Lavellan when he was very young, but he does have some memories of his parents.

His mother, Taoirse, was a fierce hunter, with sharp grey-blue eyes that Mahanon recognizes as near mirrors of his own, though his have always lacked that dangerous edge. One of Mahanon's fathers, a gentle merchant with an easy smile, always called her Fen'Asha - "Wolf Woman." Mahanon's other father, a dark and quiet man who accompanied Taoirse on her hunts whose blade was longer than he was tall, always nodded in weary agreement when this was said.

Mahanon never knew for certain whether Fionn - the merchant - or Deimne - the hunter - was his birth father, but he didn't much care. It was common in the Sliabh Clan for families to have more than two parents. Often the bond between hunting partners was one of love as well as friendship, and should one fall in battle, the other would fall with them. Because of this, hunters would form loving partnerships with clan members who led far less dangerous lives. Taoirse and Deimne had been partners and lovers since their first hunts, and met Fionn during a large meeting between clans some ten years into their relationship. So Mahanon was born, and grew up knowing that his mother and fathers loved him dearly, each in their own way. Taoirse and Deimne taught him to fight as best they could, before his magic made itself known, and Fionn taught him his letters and numbers and cared for him when the hunters were away.

Mahanon remembers, keenly, how Fionn wept the day he was gifted to Clan Lavellan. Deimne gave him a finely-wrought dagger that Mahanon still keeps with him, wherever he goes. 

Taoirse, Fen'Asha, did not say a word, but her cold hunter's eyes held nothing but warmth and love in them as she said her final farewells. 

In the tradition of the Dalish, Mahanon and his parents were encouraged to have a clean break from one another - he is no longer Mahanon Sliabh, after all, but Mahanon Lavellan. His family may not be his by blood, but by bonds of loyalty, and he loves them as well as he can.

Not how he loved his parents, though.

He's always been of two minds about trying to find them again. The Sliabh Clan, he knows now, is small, and only rarely communicates with other clans, never mind the world of humans. He once heard a city elf refer to the Sliabhs as feral, wild, hardly better than animals. He does not believe this, but he knows that their seclusion makes them hard to find.

Harder still, to find them, and hear that his hunting parents met an early end due to the nature of their wild life, leaving his gentle father alone. In his mind, he likes to think they are together still, and perhaps have another child or two between them. Children they are allowed to keep. 

It never occurred to him that his birth clan was unusual in their approach to love and partnership. Not until he was much older, and had been to more than a few markets and festivals with the far more social Lavellan Clan, and he'd learned of how humans love. How many city elves love, how many clans love. It was jarring first to learn that many only recognized partnership, "marriage," as being between two people. 

Far more jarring was learning that in the human world and even in parts of elven society, such partnerships were only recognized between men and women, with rigid definitions of gender upon all regardless of personal realities. Mahanon knew, very early in his life, that he did not feel the same way about women as he did men. Never did he think there was anything strange about it, or wrong, until some passing remarks and whispered comments reached his ears regarding scandals in lordly human houses - dukes who were discovered with serving boys, princesses with ladies-in-waiting who shared their beds. It was a subject of laughter, mockery, shock.

And all Mahanon could think of, hearing this, were the hazy memories of sleeping in Fionn's arms, with his mother and father on either side of them. The warmth of having his whole family together.

A fortune teller at a market once told him that love would strike him twice at an odd time, when his life had turned sideways and the world he knew had all but crumbled. Mahanon didn't exactly find such advice encouraging, but part of him knew when he awoke chained in a dank dungeon with an otherworldly mark seared into his palm that if he lived long enough, he might see that particular fortune come to pass.

He met Bull first, on a stormy beach drenched in blood and salt, and he felt a little like a prey animal caught in a snare as he took in the Qunari's broad chest and battle scars, his one eye sharp and keen. He felt Deimne's dagger knock against his ankle, trapped up in the leather of his boot as it rested against his calf as it had for many long years, and there was a dual feeling of homesickness and odd comfort, some hope that he might again have that family he gave up so long ago. All of that hit him in an instant, looking at Bull, and the feeling has only grown since.

Then he met Dorian, and lightning struck again as the fortune teller said it would. Grey eyes, but soft and warm, something reminiscent of days spent reading and learning how to count and multiply, being taught his love for books and having his natural curiosity encouraged into a proper hunger for knowledge. Mahanon knew he loved Dorian before the man even spoke to him - different from his almost helpless attraction to Bull, but equally strong. 

He didn't know enough of how the broader world dealt with such situations to approach things with any kind of subtlety or planning, and opted for honesty instead. He's spent the past long months - _fenhedis,_  almost a year now - all but throwing himself at Bull, and making it as clear as he can to Dorian how utterly the man has captivated his heart. In Haven, things seemed to be progressing.

Then on all fronts, everything seems to have stalled since his latest confrontation with Corypheus. Bull has been flirtatious, yes, but no more than he is with literally every other breathing being to enter his line of sight, limited though it might be. Dorian has been warm, and gentle, with that clever wit and sharp tongue that makes Mahanon's heart ache, but he seems to take great pleasure in emphasizing, often, how wonderful it is that they are _friends._  And only friends.

It is confusing, and maddening, and Mahanon had hoped to sort it all out on this stupid desert pilgrimage, but that was before he got himself tossed off the side of a mountain and kidnapped by Venatori. 

-

Mahanon wakes, barely, to more liquid being tipped into his mouth. Defying his searing thirst, he spits it out, remembering the magebane, and bites back a groan as pain from almost every inch of his battered body floods into his waking mind at once.

"Stupid _rattus,_ " someone mutters, digging their fingers into his jaw and forcing his mouth back open. "You want to die? You do it _after_  we deliver you to the Elder One."

Mahanon is about to attempt some kind of retort - or at the very least, a grunt of protest - and promptly chokes on more liquid being poured past his lips. A brief struggle is all he can muster, before realizing that he's being given water. Stale, warm water, but water nonetheless.

He quickly switches from struggling to nearly inhaling the water, choking as he pulls as much as he can into his mouth. He only manages a few swallows before the water is taken away, and the next liquid to dribble past his lips is laced with magebane and that awful brain-numbing sedative. 

There's no real fight that he can muster to counter that hard, strong grip on his jaw, keeping his mouth held open and his head tilted back. He coughs up as much of the magebane as he can, but already he can feel the drugs working through him again, sending his mind back under. 

He's still conscious, barely, as the Venatori holding him releases his jaw with an angry mutter, gathering up their things and shuffling off. Everything is spinning, but Mahanon manages to catch a few details in the leaking sieve of his mind. 

Low light. Dusk. The sun is going down. 

His arms are numb. Chained. Above his head.

Everything is blocked by crossed bars. A cage?

No, a slave caravan. He's seen more than his fair share of these across the Wastes, usually with people still in them. 

_Shit._

"So this is Andraste's _Herald,_  is it?"

An oily voice, and a hand reaching cage to fist in Mahanon's thin shirt, dragging him close. His armour is gone, as are his boots.

_And Diemne's dagger._  No, he can't think about that right now.

He blinks, his stomach turning as everything spins again, then finds himself looking into a pair of cold blue eyes. There's triumph there, and disgust, and an odd hunger that makes his skin crawl.

"It's a pretty thing," the oily man says, his fist relaxing into an open hand, resting over Mahanon's chest. "Under different circumstances, I would take it for my own uses. Perhaps the Elder One will see fit to reward me. Its magic is completely suppressed?"

"I'd be shocked if it had two thoughts left to rub together, with what we gave it," someone says, as Mahanon starts to slip out of consciousness again. _No!_  He fights to hold on, to _think_. "It'll be disoriented for quite some time. Probably wouldn't even notice if you wanted to have some fun with it."

"Tempting," the oily voice says. "Still, wouldn't want to risk..."

What the man isn't willing to risk, Mahanon isn't sure. The words dissolve into senseless sounds, and Mahanon knows he's soon about to dissolve right along with them. No magic, no weapons-

_Nothing but this cursed mark._

He blinks. 

It hurts to do it. He hates doing it. He's only done it once since he crawled out of some ice tunnels months ago, half-dead and reeling from being thrown around by a demi-god then having a mountain dropped on his head. Still, if he can-

(The mark in his hand sparks-)

If he can just-

("What is it _doing?_ " the man asks sharply, his hand turning to a fist once more-)

He thinks of Dorian, and of Bull, and of being in a slave caravan-

(Someone shouts a warning-)

Something like a rift explodes from the mark, bolts of green light dragging the souls and essences of the Venatori camped around him past the Veil, into the Fade. Most are consumed completely. Those that aren't, suffer a far worse fate, split into pieces and drained of anything that made them who they were.

Things are quiet, or near enough to it, and Mahanon is grateful beyond words to fall into darkness once more.

-

"-vishante _kaffas,_  Maker, Andraste, fasta- oh, thank the- he's breathing."

"I told you, he's a tough little guy."

There's a sickening crack, like worked steel ploughing through a skull, but closer there is the scent of spice and the tips of elegant fingers pressing against Mahanon's throat, a hand cradling his face. He coughs, and struggles to open his eyes. "Wha-?"

"Maha- Inquisitor," says a familiar voice, breaking a little. "You, ah, gave us all quite a scare, disappearing like that."

Mahanon blinks, and though everything is dark and blurred and things are moving that probably shouldn't be, there's a face very close to Mahanon's that causes his heart to skip a beat or two, even with the bars still between them. "Dorian."

"That's good," Dorian says, nodding, and Mahanon closes his eyes against a swell of nausea because really, everything is very swimmy right now and he would appreciate it very much if things stopped being so stupidly _... mobile_. "After a fall like that, it's a wonder you remember anything at all, never mind names. Oh, Maker, you're frozen stiff. Is everyone quite dead back there?"

That question isn't meant for Mahanon, and there's another awful crunch before a rough voice replies, "They are now. Probably pretty grateful for it too. You really did a number on these folks, huh, Boss?"

"Sorry," Mahanon murmurs, letting his head rest against Dorian's palm and feeling himself drifting off again. He is cold, as Dorian pointed out, torturously so without his armour and even those cursed boots, but it's really quite far down on his list of complaints. 

"Don't be sorry, it's damned impressive is what it is. Any reason why he's still in that cage, 'Vint, or is that just how you like your elves?"

"Don't be an ass," Dorian snaps. "There's a warding in the metal, magic won't open it. Some _brute_  force would be welcome."

"Be nice," Mahanon says faintly, frowning. "Both of you. 'S nice to see you."

"Well, that's friendly," says Bull, approaching the caravan. "Found a couple of empty bottles on one of those dead fuckers - they've been dosing him with a nasty sedative blend. Saw it a lot back in Seheron - magebane, deathroot-"

"I know the one," says Dorian, sounding weary. "Well, at the very least we know it isn't permanent."

"He's gonna be pretty stupid for a while, but hey, if he can't wander off on his own, maybe he won't go walking off any more cliffs," Bull says. 

"Didn't do it on purpose," Mahanon grumbles.

There's an awful grating noise, and the caravan jostles around Mahanon, who buries his face in his shoulder and feels his ears flatten back against the sound. He realizes a little belatedly that Dorian's hand is still on his face, moments before it slips away. 

He cracks his eyes open to see that the gate of the cage has been ripped clean off. In moments, Dorian is stepping in, Bull hovering close by.

"Are those manacles gonna be a problem for you?" Bull asks, as Dorian crouches down beside Mahanon, his face drawn up in scrunched lines of concern that Mahanon wants to smooth over with his hands, or maybe his lips. 

"I don't think so - if they used blood magic to seal them, then the spell would become brittle with the caster's demise, so if I just-"

There's a sharp snap, and the manacles pop open. Mahanon drops, his arms two numb, dead weights, and would likely smack his face off the floor of the caravan if it isn't for Dorian's reflexes, catching him just in time.

And then Mahanon is in Dorian's arms, pulled close against his chest, and despite everything - the screaming pain of most of his muscles and more than a few likely impressive bruises, the confusion of the sedative still wreaking havoc on his mind, and the cold - there's a part of him that's just stupidly _glad._  It's not just because Dorian is deliciously warm that Mahanon finds himself curling closer into Dorian's embrace, tucking his head under Dorian's chin with a little shiver.

"Oh," says Dorian, very softly.

"As adorable as this is, I think cuddling can wait until we're in a place with a fire, some food, and a few less dead Venatori, hmm?"

Dorian flinches, and there's something odd and rueful in his voice as he says shortly, "Apologies, Bull."

Mahanon bites back a grunt of pain as Dorian moves him, half-carrying him in an awkward crouch towards the opening to the cage. 

Then two thick, strong arms slide under Mahanon's knees and shoulders, lifting him out of Dorian's hold until he's balanced against a broad, muscled chest. The Iron Bull gives off heat like a furnace, and Mahanon shivers again as parts of him that have gone numb from the frigid temperatures begin to warm and regain feeling. 

_And he's in Bull's arms, close enough to hear his heart beating through his chest._

"I should fall off cliffs all the time," Mahanon says stupidly, his words slurring as darkness starts to claim him again. "'S not so bad. You're both here..."

The last thing he hears before slipping under, is Bull huffing out a confused snort, and Dorian saying, "Oh dear, that sedative really did do quite a number on him, didn't it?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YO thank you to the kind and lovely people who have commented on this fic so far, I'm glad this is a thing people are enjoying. Everything is stupid fluff in this chapter so prepare.

Mahanon wakes up to an explosion of agony in his right arm, and a large hand clamped tight over his mouth as he convulses in a muffled shout of pain.

He struggles for a moment, confused and certain that someone or something is trying to kill him, only to find himself wrapped up tight in what feels like a blanket or a cloak, and restrained by strong arms, a familiar voice murmuring quietly to him.

"Easy, Boss. Just us. Got it yet?"

"Almost-"

There's a sick _pop_ , and another wave of pain, this time mingled with an odd feeling of relief as the bone of his arm slides back into place. Mahanon blinks, and breathes, and forces himself still.

"That's the worst of it, then. I can do something about the torn muscles and maybe mend the bone a little, but I don't want to go too far with it. Not if we can get him to a proper healer come morning."

Mahanon squints as a small flame appears in front of his eyes, balanced on an elegant fingertip. The light moves before his eyes, and some part of him knows he's meant to follow the motion for... some reason, but that single flame soon multiplies and starts to wander and slide around his field of vision. Feeling nauseous, he turns his head away.

"Still doped up, huh?"

"Not exactly surprising," says Dorian with a sigh. "It's meant to last a while. It might even be helping him with the pain..."

Mahanon shakes his head, swallows, and forces himself to _think._  He feels more than a little drunk, like he's had several mugs of ale on an empty stomach, with absolutely none of the euphoric and warm sensations that liquor might provide. "Where are we? What- um, time is it?"

"About five, six miles out from camp, maybe a bit more," Bull murmurs, and Mahanon can feel the deep rumbling of his voice close against him. As his vision sharpens in the dim light of the crescent moons above, he sees that they've settled in the lee of a large dune - Bull crouches at his left side, relaxing his grip on Mahanon now that he's come to his senses. At his right, Dorian kneels over his arm, a soft green light gathering in his hands as he frowns down at the task before him. "Almost two leagues, if that makes more sense to you. We've made good time getting back, and they didn't get too far with you - luckily those Vints had you in that fucking caravan, probably slowed them down some over the sand. If they'd made it to that old dwarf road west of here, we might not have caught up to you at all. Good work with the hand thing."

Mahanon frowns, then remembers, vaguely. A flash of green, and several screams. He shivers. "I had to."

"Yes, you did, and they bloody well deserved it," Dorian says fiercely, feeding a little magic into Mahanon's mangled arm. The lingering pain dulls into an ache, and Mahanon finds himself breathing a little easier for it. "Alright, that should keep it set for a while. It's past two in the morning, I think."

"Varric?" Mahanon asks, his voice rough and slurred to his own ears. 

"He went back to camp when we got to the bottom of that cliff and you weren't there," Bull says. "They've probably got every Inquisition scout on hand looking for you right now."

Mahanon sits up at that, eyes wide. "It's not safe for them, we have to get back-"

A wave of dizziness hits him and he doubles over, his head pounding.

"You're determined to undo my handiwork here, aren't you?" Dorian mutters, taking Mahanon's arm in his hands. When Mahanon's vision clears, he sees Dorian working a scarf into a makeshift sling, settling Mahanon's arm gently against his chest as he loops the fabric over his neck. "That's the plan, but we also want to be certain we're getting you back in one piece."

"Not to mention Dorian took a pretty bad hit when we were fighting on that mountain, and because he's a stubborn little shit he refused to go back to camp with Varric," mutters Bull. At Mahanon's look of alarm, he adds, "Nothing a little rest won't fix, or I wouldn't have let him come."

" _Wouldn't have let-!_ Like you weren't favouring that bad leg of yours for the past three hours!" Dorian grouses. Mahanon looks to him, concerned, and Dorian says hastily, "Nothing past the norm, I'm certain. Still, we decided _for various reasons_  to stop for the night."

Mahanon looks between the two of them, and nods. "No. Yes. You both need to rest, certainly, I can make it back from here if I'm pointed the way. That way?"

He moves to stand, and is promptly shoved back down by both human and qunari hands.

"You had to mention the bloody scouts," Dorian mutters to Bull. 

"Look, boss, they're gonna be fine," says Bull, his grip on Mahanon's shoulder gentle but very firm, like he expects Mahanon to go racing off again at any moment. "They're Inquisition folks, yeah? Cullen's got them well-trained, they'll look after themselves. We can spare a few hours."

Mahanon clutches at the cloak wrapped around him with his good hand, biting his lip. He's had to accept that a great many people seem to be willing to risk their lives for him now, but he doesn't like it.

He's still loosely considering pressing on to camp once Dorian and Bull are asleep - _if they plan to sleep, if he doesn't fall asleep first because Creators, but he's tired_ \- when Bull starts a little beside him and begins to rustle around in a pack at his other side.

"We managed to get some of your shit back," Bull says. "Some of your armour - no staff, sorry, but I heard you saying you were planning on switching it out first chance you get, so hopefully you're not too torn up about it. But- here, Dorian found this on one of the Vints."

It looks so much smaller in Bull's hands, little larger than a fruit knife, but there's no mistaking the wrought-silver knotwork on the hilt intrinsic to the Sliabh Clan. Mahanon takes it carefully, some part of him that he'd not realized was hurt healing with the weight of Deimne's dagger in his hands.

"Thank you," he says, nearly voiceless, rubbing a thumb over the hilt. He feels his eyes begin to fill and quickly blinks any tears away before the others can see _._

"Bull insisted we look for it," Dorian says gently. "Is it... pardon me, I'm not very familiar with Dalish artifacts. Is it symbolic in some way?"

"It was my father's, from my birth clan," Mahanon says roughly, holding the dagger close to his chest. "It's... very important to me."

"I don't think I've ever seen you anywhere without it," Bull says. 

Mahanon nods, and shivers as a gust of cold wind cuts through his cloak.

"Bloody Wastes, insufferably hot during the day and deathly cold at night," Dorian says, shaking his head and lifting his hands. "I'll get us warmed up in a moment."

"Hey, now, I wasn't kidding earlier when I said you needed to rest, 'Vint," Bull says, reaching across Mahanon to push Dorians hands down. "Boss is light and all, but I don't want to have to carry two conked-out little mages six miles over the dunes in the morning."

"He was nearly hypothermic when we found him," Dorian says sharply. "We have to keep him warm. For that matter, I'm not exactly keen on freezing to death in the middle of a desert. The irony alone-"

"You _both_  are way too delicate for your own good," Bull says. "Mind if I manhandle the elf for a couple seconds?"

"Are you asking my permission?" Dorian says, sounding nonplussed.

"Kind of."

" _Why?_ "

"Well, he's not really in a state for me to be asking him, so."

There's an awkward pause, which Dorian breaks with a slightly frigid, clearly bemused, "Proceed."

Mahanon isn't exactly certain what anyone is talking about anymore, but he manages to bite back all but a short grunt of surprise as Bull picks him up and bundles him close against his chest, wincing as this jostles his bandaged arm.

But then Bull's body heat seeps through the cloak, and Mahanon relaxes into that warmth, pressing closer as Bull starts to rearrange the cloak around his ears, protecting the sensitive tips that have already gone numb from the cold night air.

"Skinner got frostbite on one of her ears once," Bull says, and Mahanon turns his face into Bull's chest as the qunari rubs his ears with the cloak, coaxing feeling back into the tips. "She didn't stop whining about it for weeks. You should get in on this, mage, unless you wanna spend the night freezing over there."

"Thank you, but I'm quite fine where I am," Dorian says primly, though there's a slight shake in his voice to suggest a shiver.

Mahanon is starting to feel quite punch-drunk and sleepy from the added warmth and the unexpected ear massage, and is certain that Dorian is being entirely unreasonable. Unwilling to lift his face from the warmth of Bull's chest, he mumbles, "Dorian," and possibly a few other things. He loses track of what he's saying very quickly as he starts to fall asleep again, a soft rumbling emanating from his chest. 

There's a very succinct pause, then Dorian says, "Is he... purring?"

"Yeah, kinda goes with the twitchy ears - the Dalish have a few quirks a lot of city elves don't have, especially the wilder ones." Bull wraps the top of the cloak over Mahanon's head like a hood, and lowers his hands, keeping his arms around Mahanon's shoulders and waist. Mahanon curls into the cloak with a contented sigh, clutching Deimne's dagger to his chest. "You didn't know?"

"I've not had much experience with Dalish elves," Dorian says. "Or at least not... happy ones."

"Don't take it personally, 'Vint, probably that sedative's just got him a little more relaxed than usual."

"Why would I take it personally? I'm happy that he's purring. I'm really quite happy for you both. Just absolutely chuffed." 

Mahanon frowns. Dorian doesn't sound happy at all, despite his words. _Maybe because he's cold?_

He tucks the dagger into his shirt to keep it safe, then reaches back, searching a little until his fingers brush Dorian's leather jerkin. He takes hold of a strap and tugs decisively. " _Dorian._  Please."

"See? He's happy you're here. No need to get all bent out of shape over a little purring."

"This is ridiculous. _You're_  ridiculous. I _do not care-_  my dear Inquisitor, I can assure you I'm quite happy where I am, though I appreciate your hearty attempts to move me."

Dorian's hands light on Mahanon's, attempting to disentangle his fingers from his jerkin. Spotting an opportunity, Mahanon takes a firm hold of Dorian's wrist and pulls him over with a hard yank, causing the mage to squawk as he topples over into Bull's shoulder.

Satisfied, Mahanon takes Dorian's hand into his own and tucks it up close against his chest, curling back up into a warm ball and relishing the feeling of having Bull and Dorian's arms around him.

"See? He's purring even louder, now. I wouldn't worry about it."

" _I'm not worried, you enormous horn-headed lout._  Fasta- what in the _fuck_  are you doing?"

What Bull is doing, is draping an arm over Dorian's shoulders. Mahanon glances over at this and smile before cuddling back into his cocoon of warmth.

"Relax, 'Vint, I'm not making a move on you. Just thought you'd appreciate a little extra warmth. Don't think your boyfriend would appreciate it much if I let you freeze to death."

"You are tempting me to solve that problem by turning you into the world's largest pile of live kindling, and _what boyfriend?_ "

"Please stop shouting," Mahanon complains drowsily, tracing the pad of his thumb over Dorian's hand and rubbing his face against Bull's chest in what he hopes are soothing gestures. "S'loud."

Neither Bull nor Dorian seem to actively acknowledge his request, though Bull is quieter when he says, "Maybe you don't have that term in Tevinter? It's slang, like, for a lover or something-"

" _I know what it means,_ " Dorian hisses, quietly. "I do not currently _have_  one, is what I am saying. Who do you think I've been seeing, exactly?"

There's a longer pause, then Bull says, "So you and Lavellan aren't hooking up, then?"

" _What?_ "

"I thought-"

"I thought he was with _you._ "

Another pause, and though Mahanon's eyes have long since drifted closed, he can feel Bull and Dorian staring at him.

"You're both really very slightly stupid, you know," Mahanon finds himself saying, before sleep claims him utterly, warm and content in Bull and Dorian's arms.

-

Mahanon is slow to waking, and has drifting, difficult patches of awareness to piece together - the heat of a morning desert sun, the sudden shift to moving on horseback, and then the muggy, stifling heat of a tent. He blinks, and opens his eyes.

For a moment, all he can clearly remember is investigating a pile of dwarf ruins, and being surprised by a band of Venatori. The rest feels like hazy, feverish dreams, and could easily be brushed off as such if he didn't still have many of the aches and bruises he's collected from his most recent misadventures.

He sits up slowly, wincing, startling a little as a waterskin is thrust into his field of vision.

"Maybe drink that down before you try anything fancy, Twigs."

Mahanon smiles, taking the skin in hand. "Thanks, Varric."

"You sound rough," says Varric, settling back on his haunches as he crouches over Mahanon's sleeping roll. "Not surprising, that was quite the fall. You know the Seeker's gonna give you an earful when we get back for nearly giving the Herald of Andraste the least ballad-worthy death imaginable - "Inquisitor Lavellan, Saviour of Thedas, walked backwards off a cliff to his untimely demise."" 

"Good to see you too," Mahanon says, taking a long swig of water. He frowns, thinking hard. "I don't remember getting here."

"According to Bull and Dorian, you were enjoying a pretty nice stupor courtesy of some Venatori sedatives," Varric says. "Scouts found the three of you trudging back this way sometime this morning, around dawn. What's the matter with those two, anyway? They went off to shout about something behind a dune a few hours ago and haven't said a word to anyone since they got back, except to tell me to keep an eye on you."

Mahanon frowns, and is about to assure Varric that he has no earthly idea what could possibly be wrong when he starts to remember.

Just bits and pieces.

Just enough.

"Oh sweet _Creators_ ," Mahanon says with a groan, doubling over. "Oh- oh _shit._   _Fenhedis._ "

"Well, that sounds good," Varric says mildly. "I have my guesses, but- feel like confiding?"

"I feel like running very, very far away," Mahanon moans. "And never returning. _Fuck._ "

"I'm going to find out at some point, kid," Varric says, standing. "In the meantime, Sparkler wanted to know when you woke up. I think he wants to talk to you."

Mahanon lets out an unintelligible groan of anguish and collapses back against his sleeping roll, spilling water over his face. "Tell him I'm dead."

"Somehow I don't think announcing the death of the Inquisitor would help to deescalate whatever situation you've got going on here," Varric says, sounding far too amused. "Enjoy the water. Glad to see you're okay."

Mahanon is not "okay." Not in the slightest. But he waves Varric out and puts the waterskin aside, covering his face with his hands. 

 _Well,_ amadán, _you got what you wanted, didn't you? They know how you feel about them now._

He's often felt young and stupid during his time with the Inquisition, in the company of many great and powerful figures older and wise than himself. He's never felt this young and stupid. Not even when he'd mixed up Antiva and Rivain during a war table meeting and nearly directed Cullen's troops to the wrong border to settle a trading dispute. 

_And Josephine wants to toss me into an Orlesian court for a ball. Dread Wolf take me, I should have fallen off a taller cliff._

There's a rustle of fabric, and Mahanon wills the ground to swallow him whole as a familiar voice says, "Inquisitor. I'm happy to see you're... er, well."

Mahanon peeks through his fingers to see Dorian closing the tent flap behind him, a hard bread roll and some dried fruit in hand. When he turns to Mahanon, he looks... uncertain, a little. Not angry, which is a slight relief, but he could also be hiding his annoyance behind a benign facade. Humans can be so very hard to read when they want to be, after all. 

"I thought you might be hungry," Dorian continues, kneeling at Mahanon's side as Mahanon sits up, still loathe to move his hands and well aware that his face is likely deeply red, and not just from yesterday's sunburns. His ears are low and flat in embarrassment, and he can't for the life of him move them to a more neutral position. "You have water that's- well, that's good, at least-"

"I'm so terribly sorry," Mahanon bursts out, unable to stand Dorian's awkward politeness for a moment longer. "I was- well, likely horrendously inappropriate, and I never intended to make you uncomfortable, or-"

"Inquisitor, please," Dorian says, holding up a hand. "It's quite alright. You were very, _very_  heavily drugged. And even if you hadn't been, it was- well, it was rather sweet, really."

"Oh _Gods,_ " Mahanon moans, burying his face back in his hands. "I really am very sorry. You and Bull aren't upset with me?"

"Not in the slightest. Please eat this, you're small enough already, I worry sometimes you might disappear entirely if I look at you sidelong."

Mahanon lowers his hands to accept the bread and fruit being handed to him, but brings his knees up to his chest, not quite able to kill the primal urge to hide in his sleeping roll and pretend to be dead until Dorian leaves. 

It only takes one bite of a dried apricot for his hunger to catch up with him, and he realizes belatedly that he hasn't truly eaten since yesterday morning. He forces himself not to wolf down his food like an animal in front of Dorian, but it's a very near thing. 

"Good to see you have an appetite, and the healers have said your arm is well-mended, though they would advise you not to do anything reckless until you're fully healed. And all of us would appreciate it if you stay away from any sharp and potentially fatal drops from now on."

"No one's going to let me forget this, will they?" Mahanon mutters between bites, and it's worth it to see the corner of Dorian's mouth quirk up into a wry little smile. 

"Varric's already writing up the details, I'm certain," Dorian says.

For a moment, a blissful moment, Mahanon thinks they might just leave it at this - Dorian poking gentle fun at him, as he always does, and Mahanon recovering from his mortification with some level of dignity, the world returning to normal.

Then Dorian bites his lip, and takes a seat on the canvas next to Mahanon's bedroll, still looking elegant and poised in a way that Mahanon could never hope to achieve. "As I said, neither of us are upset. We are... ah, confused, I think. Both of us seemed to be under- certain impressions."

Mahanon swallows, and puts the fruit and bread aside, his fierce hunger rapidly dropping off in the wake of his returning shame. "I vaguely recall. Very vaguely. Again, I'm very sorry if my attentions have made you feel uncomfortable-"

"They haven't- _wouldn't._ " Dorian says this very adamantly, and Mahanon shuts up, caught up in the intensity of Dorian's gaze. "For the sake of clarity, only, we just- we're not entirely certain who those attentions are meant for."

Mahanon blinks. "Pardon?"

"Neither of us would be offended if they weren't for us," Dorian says quickly. "We- well, we sort of unintentionally curbed our own advances out of respect for the other. But we're a little curious as to who it is you're interested in, ultimately." At Mahanon's blank look, Dorian sighs, "Apologies for my directness, but believe me, I can only imagine how this conversation might have gone had Bull come to ask. We are all adults here, however, though in many ways Bull _really_ toes that line-"

"Both," Mahanon says.

Dorian stops short, looking utterly thrown. "Beg pardon?"

"I've learned that it isn't very common for humans, but- or, well, perhaps even for elves, but... _Creators,_  might as well, my heart quite thoroughly belongs to both of you," Mahanon says, blustering as best he can through his embarrassment. "I promise I never meant to confuse anyone, and I- well, I didn't quite know how to explain that, or approach it, or-" 

"Heart?" Dorian says, a little faintly. "I- we- Bull and I thought you might have simply been looking for... ah, physical companionship."

"That would obviously be more than welcome," Mahanon says without thinking, and winces at the jump of Dorian's eyebrows. " _Fenhedis._  Dorian, I have lov- I have had feelings for you since first we met. How could I not? Mythal's mercy, I'm making a mess of this."

He hopes he caught his near declaration of love in time before Dorian could hear it and be repelled, but judging by the stunned look on the mage's face, perhaps not. _Shit._

Eventually, Dorian swallows and says, "You... have feelings for me?"

"Yes."

" _And_  Bull?"

"Yes."

Dorian blinks a few times, and says, "I don't quite follow."

Mahanon lets out a strangled noise, and searches himself for a moment, relieved to find the object he's looking for close at hand, in the blankets by his pillow. 

"The dagger your father gave you," Dorian says, sounding a little dazed as Mahanon holds it out for him to take. He does so, tracing the knotwork with a fingertip, as he says, "It's really very beautiful."

"I'm not a Lavellan by birth," Mahanon says, desperate to explain. "I'm of a small hunting clan that largely keeps to the Planasene Forest, the Sliabh. That is my father's dagger, as I said, but he was not my _only_  father."

Dorian looks up at that, something oddly soft in his eyes as he says, "You were raised by two fathers?"

Mahanon nods. "The Sliabhs never cared about that sort of thing. I never learned that it was unusual until I was given over to the Lavellans, and I saw more of the world. But I did not just have two fathers, Dorian, I had a mother as well."

"Many do," Dorian says blithely.

"No, I mean- she raised me with my fathers. All three of them, they lived together as lovers and as my parents. My family. Do you understand?"

Dorian stares. "I've... not heard of such a dynamic outside of physical acts. Not to be crass. Maker, I'm only just beginning to wrap my head around how you Southerners view relationships with two men or two women. Where I'm from, love was never involved in such unions."

"Well, welcome to the South," Mahanon says, a little wildly. "Dorian, I- it would be far too much to hope for, that you might return my feelings, but I've also seen how you and Bull speak to one another. Beyond the constant bickering and you threatening to set him on fire-"

" _When he deserves it._ "

"-no argument from me, beyond that, I _know_  you care for him. And I know he cares for you. I know this must be a great deal to take in at once, and- and perhaps this isn't what you want from me, if you were to want anything at all, but-"

Mahanon is promptly interrupted by Dorian's lips on his, claiming his mouth for a kiss.

It hurts a little, with the burns and bruises and aches, but it's a _good_  hurt. Mahanon melts into Dorian with a sigh, his hand coming to rest on the back of Dorian's neck, pulling him closer as warmth pools in the pit of his stomach at the touch of Dorian's hand on his back, the softness of his lips again Mahanon's mouth, the alien feeling of his facial hair brushing against Mahanon's skin.

Dorian pulls back first, but not very far, his eyes almost a little fierce with heat and intent as he meets Mahanon's gaze.

"It is _absolutely_  not a question of whether I want you," Dorian says quietly, his hand sliding down Mahanon's back a little further and finding the hem of his cotton shirt, fingertips trailing under the fabric and over bare skin, causing Mahanon to shiver. "Maker, you're really  _woefully_  unaware of the effect you have on people, aren't you?"

It takes quite a lot of self-control to keep from tackling Dorian into his bedroll and wrapping himself up in Dorian, letting his lips explore that spiced mouth and soft skin to his heart's content. He swallows, unable to break away from Dorian's eyes, and says, "Is _this_ what you want, though? You and Bull..."

Dorian frowns a little, and Mahanon's heart drops. Then he sighs, and hangs his head with a rueful snort. "Well, you may not be... _entirely_  wrong about myself and Bull. At least on my end. I'm quite certain that brute would mount anyone willing within a fifty mile radius, so there's that as well."

"It's different, how he looks at you," Mahanon says softly, slipping his fingers into Dorian's silky hair, so different from his own wild curls. 

"And you," Dorian murmurs, looking up. "I... I nearly missed it, given that I was having a fucking heart attack at the time, but the look on his face when you went over that cliff... he's a little more complex than I gave him credit for, I think. Though if you tell him I said that I _will_  punish you in some way."

"That sounds promising," Mahanon says, smiling.

Dorian's mouth falls open, eyes wide, and then he's laughing. " _Kaffas_ , Inquisitor, what a thing to say. It could make a man inclined to do terribly indecent things in a tent with such thin walls."

"I would be far from disappointed if you felt you needed to follow such inclinations," Mahanon says, pressing closer to Dorian and hyperaware of the hand traveling up his back under his shirt, whatever Dorian's qualms might be.

It's nice, seeing the man so suddenly overwhelmed, the black of his eyes expanding rapidly to swallow the soft grey as Mahanon gazes up at him, sealing his words with a gentle kiss. 

Mahanon can't quite swallow back a squeak as Dorian topples them both over, pinning Mahanon under him as he kisses him back fiercely, taking Mahanon's breath away as he teases the seam of his lips with the tip of his tongue. He fists a hand in Dorian's hair and lifts his arm to wrap around Dorian's waist, to pull him closer-

His bad arm. He breaks off the kiss with a short hiss of pain. "Damn. Sorry."

" _Venhedis_ , what are we doing?" Dorian says, sounding quite breathless as he pulls away, though not very far. "You fell off a mountain yesterday, this is neither the time nor the place for such things."

"Well, not with that attitude," Mahanon says, raising an eyebrow and giving Dorian's hair a very gentle tug.

Dorian laughs, and kisses him again, a brief and gentle peck. "Minx. I'm sorry, my dear Inquisitor, but I rather think you should be resting. Not trying to tempt helpless men into debauching Andraste's Herald within earshot of the biggest gossip in all of Thedas. Hello, Varric, if you're listening, which I have no doubt you are."

"Creators, he would be, wouldn't he," Mahanon mutters. Softer, he says, "Dorian... could you call me by my name? I barely want to be the Inquisitor on a good day, and- not with you. If that's alright."

Dorian's eyes turn very soft, and quietly he says, "Of course."

Mahanon smiles, his heart feeling suddenly very full, stroking his hand over Dorian's hair. "Thank you."

"Of course," Dorian says again, and adds, "Er... terribly sorry though, what's your name again?"

Mahanon gapes. Dorian grins.

" _Ass,_ " Mahanon says, shoving Dorian, who laughs. 

"I couldn't resist," Dorian says, rolling off of Mahanon and sitting up. Gently, he leans down and brushes another kiss over Mahanon's brow, and says, " _Mahanon_. You should sleep a little more, I think. The healers said mending the bone took quite a lot out of you."

He can feel it- the bone-deep exhaustion of an intense healing still working through him. Still, he's loathe to close his eyes, a little worried that all this might dissolve into some kind of impossible dream upon his next waking.

"This could work, then?" Mahanon says, unable to help himself as he slips his hand into Dorian's, tangling their fingers up together. "Us?"

Dorian sighs, though he's smiling, still. "Mahanon, I am a disgraced Tevinter Altus whom most are convinced is a spy for the Venatori, Bull is a qunari reaver recently turned Tal-Vashoth, and you are the Dalish Herald of Andraste and leader of the modern age's Inquisition. At the very least, if any of your advisors were to find out you had romantic interests in either one of us, they would likely go grey from the shock and stress. Well, perhaps not Leliana, she seems quite unflappable. Cullen would absolutely have an aneurysm."

"I don't care about any of that," Mahanon says fiercely, squeezing Dorian's hand. "Mythal willing, I plan to have a life beyond this war. These dark days cannot last forever."

There's something very gentle, and almost a little sad in Dorian's gaze, as he holds Mahanon's hand in his and reaches down to smooth his wild curls away from his eyes. 

"We can only pray that you are right," Dorian says softly. "In the meantime, I will speak to Bull, and... we will see. All I can promise you right now is that I am yours, for as long as you'll have me."

Mahanon smiles. "That's more than I could ever have hoped for."

Dorian raises Mahanon's hand to his lips, gently kissing his scraped and bruised knuckles. Then he gets to his feet and slips out of the tent, leaving Mahanon to slide back into dreams once more.

-

When Mahanon next wakes, it's night again, judging by the all-consuming blackness. For an ugly moment, unable to see, he remembers bars across his vision and the bite of manacles around his wrists, the oily voice of a Venatori man sizing him up, calling him an "it," planning to take him to Corypheus-

He jerks up in his sleeping roll, only to realize that he's not alone.

On one side as his night vision clearing and cast all the details of the tent into sharp relief, he sees Dorian, sleeping soundly with an arm cast over Mahanon's waist, buried under several blankets to combat the desert night chill.

On the other side is Bull, providing an incredible amount of heat on his own, and Mahanon realizes that he's been sleeping curled up half on top of Bull, with his head pillowed on Bull's arm.

"You alright, Boss?" Bull asks quietly in the dark, his murmur a low rumble like thunder in the night.

Mahanon relaxes back, unable to fight the joyful smile lighting up his face as he curls up happily between Bull and Dorian, feeling warm and safe in all the best ways. "I'm fine, thank you. Just fine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EYYY I DID THE THING WOWZA IT'S 3.22 AM I MAKE BAD LIFE DECISIONS A LOT GODDAMMIT I HAVE WORK TOMORROW.
> 
> I needed more Dalish words and borrowing from Irish again, Mahanon calls himself "amadàn," which essentially means "idiot" (AWMA-dawn). Words.
> 
> Also Mahanon's character arc both in-canon and in these stories is essentially "happy innocent elf child slowly loses innocence and pretty much everything else as time goes on" because I like to torture the ones I love. This is fairly early in that arc so he's still like, Madoka pre-Episode 3 (for anyone who gets the reference). If this does well and people like his arc in Wolf Family, I might be tempted to write more fics of him and his baes and the slow relentless crushing of his hopes and dreams.
> 
> SO VARRIC CALLS MAHANON "TWIGS." I spent a long time deliberating over what nickname Varric would give Mahanon and it was only after a conversation with GrimSister where I mentioned Mahanon's curly hair and how likely it is to attract leaves and twigs that I was like ah yes. All I can imagine is Varric watching Mahanon comb through his hair with his fingers and finding like, three pine cones, a bunch of leaves, and idk a small bird or something in there and immediately just "Andraste guide me, this cannot pass without comment."
> 
> Also it mentions briefly that Mahanon is young in this chapter so if you haven't read any of my Wolf Family fics - basically when I designed Mahanon I accidentally made him look very adorable and a lot younger than I'd planned and decided to roll with it. Instead of him being in his late twenties, early thirties like I'd intended, I kind of headcanon him to be around my age (I'm 22). Basically he is very sweet and smol and honestly needs like a thousand naps so we have that in common. At some point I'll get a good shot of him for my blog (him and Alaine since they're both in Heart Says Go) but ye. FEEL FREE TO DROP BY MY BLOG AND ASK ME QUESTIONS ABOUT HIM OR LITERALLY ANYTHING I'M AT FOXNONNY.TUMBLR.COM AND CURRENTLY BUSY AF WITH MY CRAZY THEATRE JOB BUT STILL I LOVE HEARING FROM PEOPLE AND I LOVE YOU ALL AND YE.

**Author's Note:**

> YAY NOTES!
> 
> I based my Inquisitor's design off the native people of Ireland, what they looked like a millennia or two ago - very small and dark-skinned (which is what my mom looks like, for what it's worth), before we got invaded a lot by Spanish folks and Vikings and potentially aliens (the Tuatha de Danann, look it up). Here's some pronunciation, as I understand it from the little Irish I speak (Connacht and Leinster dialects, if anyone cares):
> 
> Taoirse = TER-shuh, a slight modification of the Irish name Saoirse (like Saoirse Ronan)
> 
> Deimne = JEM-nuh
> 
> Fionn = FIN, like Fionn mac Cumhaill (an Irish hero, pronounced "Finn MacCool" - honest to God)
> 
> Sliabh = SHLEE-uv, like Sliabh na mBan, a mountain in Tipperary 
> 
> There's a lot of stuff in the Elvish lore in Dragon Age that I find resonates heavily with Irish history and culture, including the reactions of different characters to the destruction of Elvish heritage. You have people like Merrill trying to reclaim everything, make sure that stories and language survives (a lot of Irish history was passed down via oral traditions, so much has been lost due to wars and invasions), people like Solas who kind of sit back and mutter that you're "doing it wrong" and kind of divorce themselves from Irish heritage (I have a family member who swings between "FoxNonny here's some important things to know about your culture" and "I DON'T LIVE IN IRELAND ANYMORE I'M NOT IRISH THAT ISLAND CAN SINK INTO THE SEA FOR ALL I CARE"), and people like Sera who get irritated and embarrassed when people act "too elfy" so like. I JUST FIND IT ALL VERY INTERESTING OKAY.
> 
> There's also some parallels between how the Dalish treat city elves and what a lot of Irish people think of the Irish diaspora (would I go to Ireland and call myself Irish despite being one generation away and raised very Irish? No I would not. Both out of respect and out of not wanting to have my ass kicked.) So yeah. THINGS. This is all from my perspective of course and I don't pretend that my views on things are a) universal or b) end all be all for suresies how things are, but yeah.
> 
> What was this fic about? Ireland? No, it's a polyship fic about an elf, a qunari, and a mage being idiots. Well, hope y'all enjoyed the mini-essay at the end regardless. Love you all and as always I thrive on comments and kudos for validation and good vibes.


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